


Complicated

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:02:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sexually inexperienced Holmes discovers that Watson is getting plenty of experience and becomes jealous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complicated

**Author's Note:**

> Much appreciation to ingridmatthews for insightful beta work. Thank you so much for your help!

Holmes turned the corner onto Baker Street and saw an unfamiliar coach waiting in front of his steps. It was very late at night, and he was expecting no callers. Watson was standing next to the open carriage door. Holmes approached on silent feet.

“I do wish you would let me see you home,” Watson said as Holmes came close enough to hear. Something in Watson’s tone made Holmes pause. Clearly this was not an exchange Holmes would be invited to join. He slipped into the shadowy passage between two houses and waited, peering around the corner. A woman’s voice answered Watson, but too quietly for Holmes to make out the words.

Watson leaned into the carriage and took the woman’s hand. “It was a pleasure,” he said, then bent to kiss her fingers. “As always.”

Holmes recoiled at Watson’s speaking so suggestively—it was most unlike him. The woman’s laugh echoed in the empty street. Watson closed the door of the carriage and stepped away. He watched until the coachman chirped to the horses, then turned and climbed the stairs.

Once the front door closed behind Watson, Holmes turned his attention to the carriage. As it drew past, he slipped out of the alley and followed. When he lost sight of it he could still hear its noise in the quiet streets, though the coachman reined in the horses to be as quiet as possible. Holmes kept after it, darting from shadow to shadow.

He did not have very far to go. The carriage stopped not ten blocks from his own house. He arrived in time to see its occupant making her way up the walk of a very elegant house. She was tall and slender, and when she bent her head and lifted her skirts to mount the front steps, the movement was graceful. Holmes was too far away in the darkness to see her face in any detail, but he had no doubt that she was lovely.

When the door closed behind her, Holmes studied the numerous windows. Very few displayed any light so late at night, and as he watched, two windows on the third floor brightened slightly—the lady’s bedchamber. She must have performed a very efficient bedtime toilette and then retired, because within five minutes all of the house’s windows were dark and Holmes was walking slowly back to Baker Street.

_A wealthy young widow_ , Holmes speculated. _Lonely. Preying on poor Watson._

Holmes scolded himself for jumping to conclusions. He knew nothing about the woman, as yet, and Watson certainly was no babe in the woods to be preyed upon. She might be a patient. Or a distant cousin.

Arriving at his front door, Holmes used his key and quietly made his way up the dark stairs. He stopped on the ninth step. The woman certainly did not carry herself in the manner of someone in urgent need of a physician, and if she were a patient, would Watson not travel to see her? Nor did Holmes think it likely that Watson would have a cousin, however distant, living right there in London of whom Holmes was not aware. Holmes’ first assumption had to be correct: Watson was carrying on some kind of amorous relations with this woman.

Holmes was bothered by the thought, although he knew he should not be. He himself did not care to become entangled in any associations of that sort, but if Watson desired female company from time to time, Holmes should not condemn him. Holmes climbed two more steps then paused again. It simply seemed so unlike Watson to indulge in such a pointless exercise.

Watson’s voice carried out of the sitting room door. “Holmes?”

Holmes had assumed that Watson would be in bed. He would have much preferred that to having to speak with him now. When Holmes entered the sitting room, Watson was lounging in his favorite armchair, which he had pulled over by the fire. He raised his head and said, “You’re back late.”

“Indeed.” Holmes could not help sounding displeased, disapproving.

Watson’s eyebrows rose for a moment at Holmes’ tone, but he did not respond. After a moment his head fell back and his eyes closed. Holmes was free to study him. He was lounging with his feet on a low stool. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his braces lying slack by his thighs. His head lolled back on a cushion he had taken from the sofa. He was relaxed. Exhausted from his exertions.

Holmes was disgusted. He decided to withdraw before he said something he ought not say. When Holmes said good night, Watson opened his eyes for a moment and smiled, but even the smile exasperated Holmes—so complacent. He strode out of the room.

Although he retired to his room, Holmes did not go to bed. Instead, he stood in the middle of the room for a very long time, planning. Then he began sifting through his wardrobe, carefully selecting just the right pieces. He could not use any of Watson’s clothes, for everything must fit him perfectly, but there must be no stains or tears. It took a good deal of time to find an entire costume, and it was almost dawn before he began to give himself a meticulous shave. He wet his hair to tame it and then dressed. He decided that one of Watson’s hats would be more appropriate, and once it was full daylight, he set the hat on his head and opened his door. He was going to see Watson’s widow.

*****

When the widow’s house came into view, Holmes noticed an older woman on the front steps. She was neatly but very simply dressed—clearly not a member of the family. The proprietary manner with which she locked the door behind her led Holmes to conclude that she was the housekeeper. It was a perfect opportunity. Holmes walked quickly so that when the woman turned out of the gate, they collided. The basket she had been carrying fell to the pavement, and Holmes grabbed her arm to steady her.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am!” Holmes said, slipping into the speech patterns of a man who had worked hard to lose the incriminating accent of his birth. “I did not see you. I’m so sorry.” He bent to pick up the basket but did not immediately hand it back to her. “Are you quite all right?”

“Oh, yes, yes. I’m not so delicate as all that.” She smoothed the front of her coat, straightened her hat, then reached for her basket.

“Allow me to help you, ma’am.” Holmes hung the basket over his arm, and the housekeeper looked wary. “My apologies. I don’t mean to be forward, but I could not help but notice the house you emerged from, and I was hoping you might be able to assist me.”

“Assist you? What do you mean, young man?” Holmes resolved to manage this conversation carefully. Intelligent servants could be wonderful sources of information, but they could also alert the object of an investigation if they became suspicious.

The woman made an impatient noise. “I’ve got my errands to run. I can’t stand here all day.”

“Oh dear,” Holmes said, doing his best to look contrite. “I’m sorry to delay you. May I walk with you?”

She did not answer, but neither did she retrieve her basket, so Holmes carried it and walked beside her away from the house. He cleared his throat, affecting nervousness. “I’m very sorry for our awkward beginning. You see, I’m looking for a position, and my agency sent me to your household.”

“What sort of position?”

“I am a valet, ma’am,” Holmes said, standing up a little straighter. “My agency informed me that your master is in need of a man with experience. I have several letters of—”

“Oh, there must be some mistake. My mistress is a widow.”

Holmes stopped walking and feigned disappointment. He knew the effect large, sad eyes could have on ladies of a certain age. The woman turned and saw his face. She gave him a sympathetic look, and her manner became more open. “Come now,” she said kindly. “Don’t fret. Your luck will turn around.”

The housekeeper held out her hand for the basket, but Holmes pretended not to see. He moved forward again, and she moved with him.

“My condolences to the lady,” Holmes said quietly, hoping to coax out more details.

“Oh, thank you, my dear boy. You’re kind to say it, but it’s been a long time. It’ll be three years come November.” The woman seemed very friendly now. “Not that you ever forget. My husband’s been dead these fourteen years, and I still miss him every day. And she’s a tender-hearted girl, my mistress. So very good.”

Holmes wondered whether the housekeeper, so obviously a loyal and virtuous woman, would still hold that opinion if she knew her mistress was corrupting young doctors in the wee hours of the morning.

“We’re lucky to have such a kind employer—we’re all devoted to her. She’s always busy with her good works. There’s not a day goes by without her running out to some charity meeting or other, but she still finds time for her boys.” She smiled fondly. “Such wonderful boys. So clever, so good-natured.”

Holmes was beginning to lose his patience. This woman was a veritable fountain of information, but none of it was helpful to Holmes. Of what use was the knowledge that the widow’s staff thought her some kind of saint? That she had wonderful sons? He walked with the housekeeper a few more blocks, then explained regretfully that he must leave her. She shook his hand warmly when they parted and wished him luck.

After speaking with the widow’s housekeeper, Holmes had no interest in speaking to the widow herself. He walked slowly home and found Watson in the sitting room. Watson glanced up and nodded in greeting, then looked up again and stared when he registered Holmes’ attire.

“What on earth happened to you?” Watson asked, a grin spreading across his face. It was the crooked, sly smile he wore when he was ready to tease. He rose from his seat and approached, crowding Holmes against the door jamb.

Holmes frowned. “I am well aware that I look ridiculous.”

Watson laughed. He put a hand on each of Holmes’ lapels and tugged at them. “Not at all. You look wonderful. Quite the proper gentleman.”

“I failed then,” Holmes answered, knocking Watson’s hands away and shrugging off the jacket. “I’d hoped to look like a proper gentleman’s valet.”

“Well, either way it suits you. You should clean yourself up more often,” Watson said. Then he squinted. “Is that my hat?” He plucked off the hat and then shoved at the side of Holmes’ head, mussing his carefully combed hair. Holmes stepped away. He disliked it when Watson resorted to physically pestering him, as if they were boys at school.

“What are you working on?” Watson asked, the maddening smirk still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t realize you had a case.”

“It’s nothing of note.”

“I’ll let you carry on then.” Watson returned to his chair and buried his face in his newspaper.

Holmes felt a prickle of annoyance. Usually it bothered Watson to be summarily excluded from a case, however minor, but today it affected him not one jot. Was it possible that the attentions of the fairer sex for one evening made Watson so ridiculously even-tempered? Holmes waited at the door of the sitting room, but Watson did not look up from the paper again. Holmes stomped up the stairs to change his clothes, vowing to himself to aggravate Watson at every possible opportunity. An irritable Watson was reassuring.

*****

Holmes came back from yet another unproductive evening spying on the widow, and Watson was not in the sitting room. Holmes could not decide whether he was relieved or disappointed. He patted his pockets, but they were empty. He was digging through the chaos of his desk looking for his pipe when he heard a cry from upstairs. Holmes froze. Was that Watson? Holmes waited and heard another, quieter cry. Now he was certain that it was Watson, and it sounded as though he might be in pain.

Holmes’ imagination conjured several scenarios wherein some diabolical character from his past broke into the house to torture Watson in revenge. Holmes looked at the ceiling, but there was no other sound. His instinct was to rush to Watson’s aid, but it would be better to take the intruders by surprise. Silently, Holmes stepped out onto the landing and crept up the stairs. Watson’s door was closed. Holmes reached for the knob, turning it slowly, preparing himself to spring. When the door was open a crack, he peeked through.

For several moments Holmes was perplexed. The scene was so different from what he had expected that he could not make sense of what he was seeing. A tangle of limbs, a blur of naked flesh. Holmes shut his eyes, ready to escape, but then he heard Watson cry out again, and the noise was so joyful. It made Holmes pause. How could he fault Watson for wanting something that brought him so much pleasure? Holmes turned back to the door, knowing he should not, and looked into Watson’s bedroom.

The first thing Holmes glimpsed was Watson’s hand, splayed on pale skin. Holmes shifted slightly to the side. The bedding blocked almost everything but that one expanse of torso, where Watson’s fingers cast odd shadows, but the build of Watson’s current partner was certainly not that of the widow, who was very slim. Holmes moved more so that he could see Watson, who seemed to be kneeling on the bed. He was concentrating, mouth slightly open, eyes closed. As Holmes watched, a hand appeared and clamped down on Watson’s thigh—a large, muscular hand.

_It’s a man_. Holmes suddenly felt light-headed. _In Watson’s bed._

The man struggled to sit upright, knocking several pillows off the bed. He kissed Watson’s lips and neck before falling back onto the bed. Watson placed one hand on the man’s chest. Holmes could not tell whether Watson wanted to prop himself up or hold the other man down. Watson was moving more quickly now. He was straddling the other man’s hips and… Holmes could not bear to look any more. He closed his eyes. Then he heard Watson inhale in a hiss between his teeth and realized that not seeing was even more difficult than having to watch.

That strong hand was now gripping Watson’s hip, and the man bent his knees, planting his feet to push himself up off the bed. He gave a shout, and Watson whispered, “Yes.” Holmes felt sick. Watson rocked back, impaling himself deeply. Then Holmes stared in horror as Watson removed his hand from the other man’s chest and began to stroke his own cock in rhythm with the man’s thrusts. One agonizing moment later Watson came, spilling over the man’s belly. Holmes had to tear his eyes away from Watson’s face, sweaty, flushed, and ecstatically happy.

Holmes looked at his feet and put one hand on the door frame to steady himself. He heard the man give a strangled groan as he climaxed and then was surprised to hear Watson laugh. The sound was enough to make him look again into the bedroom. Watson was leaning over his companion. The man’s hand rose and cupped the back of Watson’s head as they kissed. Then Watson fell to the side and groaned. The man laughed and reached over to the bedside table for a cigarette. After lighting it and taking a long drag, he handed it to Watson, who was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow. As Watson took his turn with the cigarette, the man rolled close and kissed Watson’s neck. He whispered something, making Watson laugh, then ruffled Watson’s hair with one hand.

“That was marvelous, John.”

Holmes felt outraged at hearing the stranger refer to Watson by his given name, but Watson only smiled and turned to place the cigarette between the other man’s lips. He looked up, saw Holmes at the door, and froze. The smile fell off his face and his eyes widened—he looked horrified. Holmes turned away and flew down the stairs. He heard Watson call after him, but he did not stop running until his lungs were burning.

He spent the next three days at the Punchbowl.

*****

Holmes looked at the dingy whitewashed walls and wondered if he could stay in the squalid little attic room forever. He would never have to go home, never have to see Watson again. He could not imagine facing Watson after what he had seen. It was too mortifying.

Holmes had been uncomfortable with the suspicion that Watson had dallied with the widow, but how much more disconcerting to know Watson had brought a man into their home? Was Watson homosexual? Holmes was afraid to think on it. From time to time it had occurred to Holmes that he himself might have homosexual tendencies, what with his discomfort around women. The idea had never bothered him unduly—he did not care about societal conventions or religious objections, so he was not disapproving in a general sense, but then neither had he ever allowed himself to dwell on the issue. It did not seem important, given his resolution not to complicate his existence with any such connections.

His experience with women was extremely limited—a few bumbling encounters when he was young—and he knew even less about relations between men. What little information he had gathered made him think he would prefer to remain ignorant than gain experience in something so awkward, undignified, and distasteful. The very idea of Watson, his Watson, indulging in such an act was so alien to Holmes that it seemed impossible, even though he had seen it with his own eyes.

Holmes turned to lie on his back and stare up at the ceiling. His right hand crept into his trousers and wrapped itself around his flaccid penis. He only very rarely resorted to masturbation, and it was always furtive and utilitarian. He never allowed himself to indulge in fantasies. Carefully clearing his mind, he pulled at his cock but a few minutes later gave it up as futile. His body would not respond. He felt nothing other than a vague frustration at the failure. He never truly enjoyed it, even on those rare occasions when he was able to bring himself to orgasm.

He remembered the intense pleasure he had seen written on Watson’s every feature. He could not stop seeing the scene in his mind: Watson straddling the stranger and crying out, the lingering kiss, and the congenial mood that seemed to so naturally follow. Holmes had never known anything like that. He tried to force those images of Watson from his mind. He rolled onto his side, pulled the blanket over his ear, and asked himself for the thousandth time why Watson had not come to look for him.

*****

An hour later, Holmes threw open the door to the sitting room, and Watson leapt up out of his chair.

“Holmes!” Watson’s eyes looked bruised. He had not slept.

Holmes said nothing.

“I…” Watson watched Holmes anxiously. “I’m sorry.”

Holmes could not make himself enter the room, so he stood at the threshold, staring in at Watson.

“I shouldn’t have…” Watson took a deep breath. “I had no idea you had returned, and he would have been gone if only—”

“Please,” Holmes interrupted. “Let’s not discuss it.”

Watson nodded, averting his eyes.

Neither spoke for several minutes. Then Watson said quietly, “I’ve found other lodgings. I only waited until I could—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Holmes barked.

“Holmes—”

“Absolutely not,” Holmes insisted. “This is your home.”

Watson finally looked up to meet Holmes’ gaze, but his expression was guarded. “You don’t understand.”

“No, I do not.” Holmes walked into the room and moved to stand directly in front of Watson. “But perhaps I could.”

“What?” Watson’s alarm was plain in his tone.

“Perhaps I could understand,” Holmes continued, stepping even closer to Watson. “If you’ll help me.”

“Holmes,” Watson warned. “No.”

“I want you to show me,” Holmes whispered. He clutched at the front of Watson’s shirt and tried to ignore how Watson shrank away from his touch.

Watson looked at Holmes, his eyes already apologizing. “I can’t.”

“Why?” Holmes demanded. “Why not?”

Watson did not answer.

Holmes twisted Watson’s shirt in his hand. “Is it because of that man?”

“Of course not. I don’t even remember his name, Holmes. It’s not—”

“You can lie with that stranger and not with me?”

“Yes. It’s because he’s a stranger. It’s…” Watson swallowed. “Uncomplicated.”

Holmes let his hand fall from Watson’s chest, and Watson took a step away.

Almost in a whisper, Watson said, “It’s not as though I often bring strangers home. I simply—”

“Is it your widow then?”

Watson started, but his surprise quickly disappeared, and he sighed. “No, it’s nothing to do with her. She—”

“Are you certain? Perhaps she’d like to keep you for herself. And for her wonderful sons.”

Watson scowled, but he controlled his temper quickly. He turned his face away and spoke as if choosing his words very carefully. “The… arrangement I have with Mrs. Irving is… convenient. For both of us. She’s very independent. She has no desire for a new husband, and she doesn’t ask anything of me.”

“She asks nothing?” Holmes said, his voice curdled with sarcasm.

Watson stepped close and grabbed Holmes’ arm. He looked into Holmes’ face intently. “I know you’re above such things, but I’m not like you. I need—” He broke off abruptly and shoved Holmes’ arm as he let go. He stood a few feet off, his back to Holmes. When he spoke again, his voice was low and intense. “I do what I must to stay sane. You sneer at sex and love, but—”

Holmes interrupted. “I’m not speaking of mindless lust or inane romantic—”

“What business is it of yours if I want to fuck a stranger?” Watson demanded, whirling around.

“Watson!” Holmes had never heard Watson use such vulgar language.

“Think what you will of me,” Watson said, glaring at Holmes fiercely. “You think it makes you superior, belittling these things, denying them. But it doesn’t.”

“Watson,” Holmes pleaded.

“It doesn’t,” Watson repeated. “It makes you inhuman.”

There was disgust in Watson’s voice. When Holmes fled this time, Watson did not call after him.

*****

The boy was handsome, but more importantly he did not have the hardened look most of the young men wore. He gave the impression of being not so cynical as the others, as if he could be kind. Holmes had been watching from the safety of a dark doorway for some time, deliberating. If he was determined to carry on with this travesty, he supposed it would be less unpleasant if the stranger in question were kind. Holmes had just stepped away from the shadows when a raucous laugh came from one of the other men, and Holmes’ chosen boy turned toward the sound and frowned.

The expression stopped Holmes midstride—it was one he had seen on Watson’s face all too often, and seeing it now on the boy, Holmes realized that he could be Watson’s cousin or brother, if not, with the addition of a moustache and a walking stick, a younger version of Watson himself. Holmes’ stomach clenched, and he nearly ran, but he restrained himself, took a bracing breath, and focused on the cluster of men under the streetlamp once more.

His eyes came to rest on the young man that had laughed so harshly. He was still chuckling and shoving the shoulder of the man next to him. He was a tall man, and his torso and limbs were thickly muscled. He would be heavy when he was older, but at that moment his bulky strength merely presented a reassuring contrast to Watson’s lean body. His complexion was dark, his eyebrows heavy. His laughter might have sounded somewhat crude, but at least it indicated he had the wit to have a sense of humor.

Holmes slowly approached the young man, but his mouth was too dry to let him utter a single word. The boy looked at him and grinned. The smile was absolutely predatory. Holmes almost turned away, but the boy jerked his head to the left and began walking. Holmes followed him down the street a few blocks and around a corner into a damp narrow lane between two shops, closed for the evening. When they were hidden in the shadows the man turned and knocked Holmes against the wall, holding him there with an arm across his chest.

“I won’t let you bugger me,” he whispered.

Holmes shook his head, still unable to speak.

“All right then,” the boy said. He fell to his knees and grabbed the front of Holmes’ trousers. Holmes’ hand clenched into a fist, but he stopped himself before he struck the boy. Instead he clutched at the stones of the wall behind him and shut his eyes, cringing at the feeling of cold fingers groping in his underclothes. An icy drip of rainwater fell off the roof above and slid down Holmes’ neck into his collar just as a wet warmth surrounded his penis. He gasped and tried to scrabble away, but strong hands held his hips firmly pinned against the hard stones.

“Please,” Holmes breathed out. This was nothing like what Holmes had wanted. He thought of Watson lying in his bed with the stranger—the intimate laughter and the ease of their bodies. That comfortable languor was what Holmes had envied. There would be nothing like that in this dank alley with this sulky, overgrown boy.

Holmes pushed the boy away and fumbled to cover himself. “Go on,” he said, his voice gruff. He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and thrust them into the young man’s hand. “Leave me.”

The boy hesitated, suspicious, then closed his fist around the money. He sneered, his face turning ugly, and walked away.

Once he was alone in the alley, Holmes gave in to his shaking knees and sank down. The wet soaked into the seat of his pants, but he hardly noticed—he was already chilled to the bone. Holmes wished he could forget. He wanted to obliterate every memory of the past few weeks, and he knew of a way to do exactly that.

*****

The first time Holmes woke up, he was so groggy he barely had time to recognize Watson’s face floating over him before he slipped back into unconsciousness. When he woke again, he was somewhat more alert. He was in his own room, and Watson was sitting in a chair next to the bed, an odd mixture of anger, relief, and worry on his face.

Watson took a breath, and his face became carefully neutral. He lifted Holmes’ eyelids and wrapped his fingers around Holmes’ wrist to measure his pulse. Holmes was grateful for the professional demeanor—he would much prefer to interact with Dr. Watson. Even if Dr. Watson scolded, there were certain subjects he would never broach.

“Are you in pain?” Watson asked quietly.

Holmes tried to shake his head, but it made him feel lightheaded, even lying down.

Watson, watching carefully, understood immediately. “Dizzy?”

Holmes closed his eyes slowly.

“All right then,” Watson said. The gentleness of his voice made Holmes flinch. “Any nausea?”

Holmes let out a little groan, and Watson patted his arm.

“Can you tell me what it was that you took?”

Holmes opened his eyes and grimaced.

Watson frowned. “Can you not tell me because you don’t remember? Or because you didn’t know what it was when you took it?”

Holmes closed his eyes, and Watson sighed.

“I can’t give you anything to make you more comfortable if I don’t know what you might still have in your bloodstream.”

His head still reeling, Holmes could not respond.

“It’s Thursday morning, Holmes.” Watson’s voice had an edge to it now. “You were gone for four days. Clarkie brought you home late Tuesday night, and you’ve been dead to the world since then. Several times I thought you might be dead in truth.”

Holmes reached out and took Watson’s hand, tugging on it. Watson sat down in his chair.

“Holmes?”

Pulling Watson’s hand close to his chest, Holmes curled up around it and went back to sleep.

*****

The afternoon sun woke Holmes, and he looked up to see Watson soundly asleep. He had folded himself into the chair in a very awkward manner so that he might perch his head on the armrest and still leave his hand in Holmes’ grasp. His breathing was deep and even—he must have been exhausted. Holmes shifted his hand and threaded his fingers through Watson’s.

He thought about his conversation with the widow’s housekeeper, who still pined for her husband fourteen years after his death. It had seemed a remarkable testament of loyalty to Holmes at the time, but after more consideration he thought he understood. He himself would likely not last one year without going mad if Watson were gone. Holmes held Watson’s hand, watching his chest rise and fall, until night fell and the streetlights were lit. Watson jolted awake, sitting suddenly upright and pulling his hand away.

“Holmes?” he called out, sounding panicked.

“Yes,” Holmes croaked. It was the first time he had spoken in days.

Watson leaned over Holmes and put one hand on his forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Miserable.”

“Good,” Watson answered. He reached for Holmes’ hand, and Holmes was pleased, but Watson was not being affectionate. He merely wanted to feel Holmes’ pulse. “I’m going to light the lamp.”

Holmes closed his eyes against the brightness.

“You look awful,” Watson said, but without conviction. He was not as worried as he had been. “I’m going to ask Mrs. Hudson to bring you some supper, and you will eat it.”

Holmes grunted, but he knew he would at least try to comply. Watson took a glass of water from the bedside table and brought it to Holmes’ lips.

“And you will take a long, hot bath while Mrs. Hudson changes your bedclothes. Then you will come straight back here and rest.”

“You are confining me to bed?”

Watson considered this. “For now. You must _rest_ , Holmes. No work.”

Holmes nodded obediently.

“And no cocaine.”

Holmes did not argue.

*****

Holmes thought he would be bothered by Watson’s restrictions, if not driven insane, but several days passed very quickly. Once Holmes showed a decent effort to follow doctor’s orders, Watson relented and allowed him out of his room, suggesting he spend some quiet time organizing the hurricane of papers in the sitting room. It was a chore Holmes always dreaded, but with Watson there, helping and making the occasional dry remark, it seemed an almost pleasant occupation.

Holmes knew that Watson was playacting—trying to make things comfortable between them again. Holmes very much appreciated the attempt, and, surprisingly, it seemed to do the trick. Pretending that there was no awkwardness between them gradually made that awkwardness at least fade, if not disappear completely.

It took them most of two full days to tame the mess, but when all of the pages were neatly filed, they settled into their chairs. Holmes picked up his violin, but before he could begin playing, he noticed Watson’s expression.

“You’re looking awfully serious, my dear Watson.”

Watson gave Holmes a sideways glance, then looked back at the fire. “You seem to be fully recovered.”

“I suppose I am,” Holmes answered. “You are an excellent physician, always able to patch me up even when I’m determined to do myself in.”

Watson frowned, and Holmes realized the teasing had been a mistake. Watson had truly been frightened by the state to which Holmes had reduced himself, and it was much too soon for making light of it.

“Then perhaps you can explain to me what the hell you were thinking.”

Holmes did not answer.

“I’ve tolerated your needles, and you know I’ve never approved, but _this_? This was…” Watson shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together.

Holmes felt a flare of anger. “Are you pretending you have no idea what drove me to—”

“You cannot blame this on me.” Watson stood to glare down at Holmes in his chair. “You come to me on some wild impulse, asking me to ‘show you,’ all the while making it very clear you neither love nor desire me. I won’t be one of your experiments!”

“It was not an experiment,” Holmes insisted.

Watson neither moved nor spoke.

Holmes desperately wished that they could return to their quiet, companionable evening. He whispered, “I can’t bear this.”

Watson still did not answer.

Holmes could not bear not understanding what made Watson seek out a stranger, bring a stranger into his bed. He could not bear the memory of how Watson’s face changed—all smiles and quiet laughter until he spied Holmes at the door. And he could not bear knowing that his touch had made Watson cringe. It was too much to put into words, so when Holmes spoke, he said simply, “He called you ‘John.’ ”

Watson let out a frustrated huff and paced the room. “He didn’t have any choice. I never told him my surname.” Watson stopped moving and sighed, his back to Holmes. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “I’m sorry for what I said that night. I don’t think you’re inhuman. I know that you’re not.”

“I can’t speak of these things,” Holmes said. “I—”

Watson turned and glared at Holmes again, stifling the words in his throat. Holmes stood and stepped close. He bowed his head, resting it on Watson’s shoulder. Watson did not move. They stood, motionless, until Holmes gathered his courage and lifted one hand toward the front of Watson’s trousers. Watson stopped him, grabbing his wrist and taking a step away.

“Please!” Holmes whispered.

For several long moments Watson only stared, still gripping Holmes’ wrist. Then he stepped forward, not once looking away from Holmes’ eyes, and slipped one hand around his waist. Watson bent and brushed his lips lightly over Holmes’ mouth. Then he pulled back and studied Holmes’ face. The next time Watson leaned close, the kiss was firmer. Watson’s hand reached up to tangle in Holmes’ hair, pulling him closer. Watson was breathing heavily now, but after one more kiss he moved away to look at Holmes.

_He’s certain I’m going to panic_ , thought Holmes, but he felt no urge to flee. He was perhaps too nervous to feel any real pleasure, but there was nothing that he found alarming. He closed his eyes and tilted his face up to be kissed again. Watson’s arm clenched around Holmes’ waist, and his tongue slid into Holmes’ mouth. As their bodies pressed together, Holmes could feel Watson’s erection through their clothes.

_He wants me_. Stunned and thrilled, Holmes felt his heart start to pound. His hand found a place on Watson’s hip, pulling him closer. Watson made a whimpering sound in his throat at Holmes’ touch, and his arms tightened their embrace. His kisses grew more fervent, and Holmes was amazed that such a simple gesture could affect Watson so completely.

Watson’s lips traveled away from Holmes’ mouth, sliding down his neck. It triggered an odd tremor in Holmes’ belly, and he was astonished to feel a stirring in his trousers. He gasped, and Watson immediately stopped and pulled away to look into his eyes, concerned. When Watson saw Holmes’ face, he smiled. He hesitated, then spoke.

“Will you come upstairs?”

Holmes nodded, feeling slightly dazed, and Watson herded him out to the landing. They climbed the stairs, Watson tugging on Holmes’ hand all the way. They did not so much as pause at Watson’s door, but passing by it reminded Holmes of what he had seen there—it was enough to kill his burgeoning arousal. Watson led the way into Holmes’ bedroom and lit the lamp. When he turned and saw the expression Holmes wore, his glowing smile faded. He let go of Holmes’ hand and sank down onto the bed.

“Holmes,” Watson said. “Promise me you’re not going to regret this.”

Holmes forced himself to move, in spite of his anxiety. He reached out to take Watson’s head between his hands and kissed him. “I swear,” he answered.

Holmes stood there between Watson’s knees, feeling foolish. For the first time in his life he wished he were more experienced. He felt so completely uncertain. During his past disastrous encounters, this was where things began to go wrong. The delicate fingers of his few female partners had irritated Holmes instead of exciting him, and the probing, rough touch of the boy on the street had repulsed him. For a moment Holmes was on the verge of panic—this was an insane venture, and he would never derive any pleasure from it.

Holmes saw Watson’s brow furrow and forced himself to remain calm. He tried to think logically. There was nothing making him uncomfortable other than worries regarding his own ineptitude. Watson had seen Holmes at his worst, more than once. Surely Holmes’s lack of experience with these matters would not chase Watson away.

Thinking of the moment when Watson kissed his neck, Holmes leaned closer and bent his head to press his lips to that same tender spot under Watson’s ear. He realized Watson was holding his breath, so he planted another kiss below the first, and Watson let out a quiet moan. Watson pulled at Holmes until he sat down on the bed. Moving slowly and deliberately, Watson kissed him again. Holmes felt Watson’s hand first on his neck, then sliding down inside his shirt to rest on the bare skin of his shoulder. Watson’s thumb stroked across Holmes’ collarbone, soothing.

Watson then carefully worked at the first button on Holmes’ shirt. Holmes did not open his eyes, but he could feel Watson’s gaze on him. _He’s still worried for me_. But having Watson remove his shirt was not unfamiliar. How many times had Watson helped him when he was injured or intoxicated? Even when Watson pushed him back onto the pillows and touched his heated skin, Holmes remained relaxed. His body had long ago learned to associate Watson’s hands with comfort.

It was slightly more unnerving when Watson began to shed his own clothing. He thumbed off his braces, then tugged his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it and tossed it to the floor. He bent to quickly remove his boots. Standing, his hands went to his trouser buttons, but he looked at Holmes’ face and paused. He then came to lie on the bed next to Holmes, who turned onto his side so they were face to face. Watson touched Holmes’ shoulder, looking at him with knitted eyebrows.

“I swear,” Holmes repeated, and Watson’s expression relaxed. 

Holmes allowed his gaze to travel over Watson’s chest. He knew Watson’s body, of course, almost as well as he knew his own, but he saw it with new eyes—his leanly muscled limbs, the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. Holmes lifted his hand to trace Watson’s lower lip with his thumb, making Watson’s eyes widen for a moment.

Holmes trailed his fingers down Watson’s neck and through the hair on his chest, and Watson’s eyes fluttered closed. Then Holmes’ hand slid across Watson’s warm belly, slowing, finally settling over the bulge in his trousers. Watson swallowed convulsively, and his mouth fell open.

Holmes could feel his heart pounding—it was nerves more than excitement, but he pushed himself to continue. He watched Watson’s face intently while rubbing his fingers over the rough wool. Watson groaned, and Holmes pressed harder. Watson reached out and grabbed Holmes’ side, and Holmes felt the heat of contact like a brand on his skin. Watson let out another moan, and Holmes felt himself growing hard. It was exhilarating.

Suddenly Watson’s eyes sprung open, and his hands tore at the fastenings of his trousers before he remembered himself. He stopped and looked at Holmes fearfully. Holmes reached to undo the last few buttons himself. Watson rolled to the side and shucked off the rest of his clothes in one fluid motion.

Watson turned back to Holmes and kissed him, his tongue exploring. Holmes heard himself whimper. He reached his hand out and touched Watson’s waist then slid his fingers down over Watson’s naked hip. Watson moaned, his lips still pressed against Holmes’. Watson’s obvious pleasure made Holmes bold. He wrapped his hand around Watson’s cock, eliciting another groan. The angle was awkward, but Holmes attempted a few gentle caresses. Watson’s hand closed around his, squeezing more tightly, stroking more quickly, teaching him.

After a moment Watson moved his hand away, and Holmes continued on his own. Watson’s hips jerked. At first Holmes feared that Watson was flinching from his touch, but then he understood that Watson was only moving away to thrust back into his hand. Watson gripped Holmes’ hip almost painfully. After another joyful cry, Watson held his breath. A few more strokes and Holmes’ hand was covered with slippery, wet heat as Watson came.

Holmes looked at Watson’s face. His eyes were closed, and he was panting, exhausted. As Holmes watched, a slow smile spread over Watson’s face. Holmes was ridiculously proud of having brought Watson to such a state. Watson kissed him, then tried to pull him close. Holmes resisted only because he was not certain where to place his rather sticky fingers. Watson frowned before he noticed how awkwardly Holmes was holding his arm. He smiled at Holmes indulgently, then leaned over the side of the bed to retrieve his undershirt. After wiping Holmes’ hand clean, he threw the shirt onto the floor and fell back onto the bed.

Watson lay still for only a moment before turning to kiss Holmes’ lips and then his neck, while his hand roamed over Holmes’ chest. Holmes tried not to let it make him anxious that with every touch Watson’s hand drew closer to the waistband of his trousers. When Watson’s fingers finally touched the button at the top of Holmes’ pants, he stopped and looked up, silently asking for Holmes’ permission to continue.

Holmes jerked his head in a nod and was grateful that Watson did not hesitate or question any further. If he had, it might have made Holmes’ doubts grow, paralyzing him. As Watson undid Holmes’ trousers and pulled them off, his hands were efficient, gentle but firm enough not to tickle. Holmes felt too exposed, lying naked on the bed. When Watson’s gaze swept over him he cast around for something with which to cover himself, but then Watson made a sound, little more than an exhalation, and Holmes saw the desire in his eyes.

Placing a hand on Holmes’ thigh, Watson leaned in for a kiss. Holmes felt reassured, but just as he allowed the tension to leave his body, Watson startled him by moving swiftly down to take his cock into his mouth. Holmes cried out, alarmed, and Watson immediately pulled himself away.

“I’m sorry,” Watson said. “I thought it would be better to simply begin. You’re thinking too much.”

“I was merely surprised,” Holmes explained after a confused pause. “I don’t mean for you to…” He felt a flush creep up his neck. “To stop.”

Watson grinned and placed a steadying hand on Holmes’ thigh before bending low again. This time Holmes was more prepared, and the feeling was astounding. Watson’s tongue moved from the base of Holmes’ cock to the tip, teasing at the head. Then Watson plunged downward, taking Holmes’ cock into his throat. The pressure and heat were exquisite. Holmes could not help but thrust upward, and Watson moaned, his fingers digging into the muscles of Holmes’ leg.

Watson’s head moved up and down, setting a rhythm that Holmes could copy. Watson’s lips pressed around the shaft of Holmes’ cock, and his tongue slid over the glans every time Holmes thrust forward. He whispered Watson’s name, and Watson squeezed his thigh in response. Watson’s mouth closed even more tightly around Holmes’ cock. Holmes could not breath, could not move, and he came, wave after wave of white hot pleasure pulsing through his body until he was gasping for air.

Watson came to lie down and gathered Holmes into his arms. It took several minutes for Holmes’ breathing to slow. He stretched his arm over Watson’s stomach and bent his knee, laying his leg over Watson’s. Watson turned to kiss Holmes’ forehead, then did not move away, staying with his mouth pressed against Holmes’ skin. Holmes could feel Watson’s breath in his hair.

Watching Watson’s chest rise and fall, Holmes was surprised that he wanted to touch, to feel the textures of Watson’s body under his fingers. He reached up and slid one hand from Watson’s shoulder down to his hip. Watson let out a satisfied, drowsy sigh.

Watson shifted his legs, settling himself more comfortably, and Holmes realized that his genitals were pressed against Watson’s thigh. He truly had not noticed. There was nothing sexual about it, but Holmes was surprised that he could be so casual about such intimate contact. _Only with Watson_ , he said to himself. _Perhaps there’s nothing Watson could do that would make me uncomfortable._ As soon as he had the thought he regretted it. Images of Watson with the stranger pried their way into Holmes’ mind, and a burning surge of jealousy ripped through his belly. Before Holmes thought about what he was saying, the words were out of his mouth. “I want to feel you inside me.”

Watson was silent for several seconds, holding his breath, before he blurted out, “Bloody Christ, Holmes!”

Humiliation flooded over Holmes. He would have pulled away, but Watson brought him close and gave him a brutal kiss. When they separated, Watson’s eyes were slightly wild. “Give a man fair warning before you say a thing like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For heaven’s sake, don’t apologize.” Watson slid his hand up Holmes’ spine and whispered into his ear, “It’s wonderful. I—” He interrupted himself with a breathy laugh. “You can’t do anything by halves, can you? I’ll be more than happy to oblige, but I’ll need some time to recover.”

Holmes calmed himself once more. Watson threaded his hand into Holmes’ hair and said, with an obvious effort to sound nonchalant, “I’m very glad to hear you’re interested in a repeat performance.”

Holmes looked away, self-conscious, and Watson laughed. It was not cruel laughter, and it made Holmes happy to hear it. After another kiss, Watson quieted. He was drifting off, and Holmes watched as his body relaxed into sleep.

Holmes himself did not feel so contented. He told himself he should be elated. He had gotten precisely what he had wanted, had managed to get through with less embarrassment and more genuine pleasure than he had dared hope. Watson was here with him, and Watson was happy. That should be more than enough, but Holmes could not stop the gears in his mind from turning.

“Watson?”

“Hmm?”

“Whatever led you to believe that I don’t desire you? That I don’t…. care for you?”

Watson’s eyes opened, but he did not look at Holmes. “Must we discuss this? Now?”

“Yes.”

Watson sighed. “It was what you said when you came to me that night. You said it wasn’t about lust or romance. I—”

“I said nothing of the sort!”

“You did. You dismissed all of it as mindless. Silly.”

Holmes hesitated. “If I said anything of the kind, it’s because I wanted to tell you that this is different. What I feel for you is completely different.”

Watson’s head turned now. Expressions flitted over his face—Holmes could not read them. Then Watson shook his head and squeezed Holmes’ shoulder. “Why must you make everything so difficult?”

It was said with exasperated affection, and Holmes knew he was not expected to answer, but he could not easily dismiss the question. He did make things difficult for Watson, unnecessarily so. Even this, something that should have been simple, governed by the most basic of animal instincts, Holmes managed to question and complicate with doubt. Watson did not deserve such unreasonable challenges.

“Shhh. Go to sleep now,” Watson murmured. It was as though he had heard Holmes’ every thought. Watson kissed him again on the forehead. “I love you, too.”

Holmes sat up abruptly.

“What is it now?” Watson said, dismayed. “You can’t possibly… You must have _known_.”

Holmes did not move, and Watson sat up next to him.

“How could you not know?” Watson put one arm around Holmes’ back and kissed him on the shoulder. “Why else would I put up with all of your nonsense?”

Holmes’ mind was racing. How was it possible? The stranger, the widow—if Watson loved him, then why…? Then he remembered Watson’s words: _I do what I must to stay sane._ He had always disdained everything to do with love, so of course Watson hid his feelings.

“Watson,” Holmes said. A thousand apologies were ready to pour out of his mouth.

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” Watson said with mock sternness.

“But—”

“Actually, I have every reason to be proud.” Watson was smiling now. It was his crooked, teasing smile.

“Proud?” Holmes asked warily.

Pressing his face into Holmes’ neck, Watson whispered, “I kept a secret from the great Sherlock Holmes.”

Holmes rolled his eyes, but Watson talking into his ear, so low and close, sent a surprising shiver of arousal through his body.

Watson pecked Holmes’ temple. It was a kiss, but it knocked Holmes’ head to the side.

“Living here with you, day after day,” Watson continued. “Right under your nose, and you never suspected. Who knew I had such a talent?” Watson fell back onto the mattress. “Perhaps I should take to the stage.”

Holmes half-turned, intending to say something sarcastic, but the sight of Watson lying there, eyes twinkling, made the words fly out of his head. Then Watson gave out an enormous yawn.

“Come here,” Watson said, pulling Holmes back down onto the bed. 

“Watson—”

“No more talking,” Watson ordered. He reached over Holmes to turn off the light then drew him close, pulling up the covers. He wrapped his arm around Holmes’ waist and tucked his knees up until there was not an inch of space between them. “Go to sleep.”

Watson was right, of course. There was no more need to analyze or discuss. There was nothing to worry over. Holmes realized that he was no longer ill at ease. He could not feel fragile and skittish with Watson teasing him and ordering him about. All was comfortable again.

Watson was already asleep, his breath warming Holmes’ shoulder, his belly hot against Holmes’ back. This was what Holmes had wanted. This feeling—safe, easy, and peaceful. Home. Watson.

The End


End file.
